Brother told a story yesterday whilst packing the limited supply of fish into trays, about his weekend camping with the boys. Tuesday’s fish is now Wednesday’s fish because of the Queen’s highly influencial date of birth. The story had nothing to do with fish, or queens, more to do with lamb and motorbike. Motorbike lamb.
The lamb, just born, left by mother from quite possibly, the startling of humans on motorbikes. Umbilical cord still attatched, trying to find warmth under the motorbike. Apparently, temperatures described as freezing, and the lamb shivering, still wet from the birth and covered in cold mud. Suckling the petrol tank for milk.
In abstract, I can see how the motorbike could, and would have felt as much the same presence of form, of that, the lambs mother. The shape, the underform warmth. The general size of the motor veichle. At such an early age, the lamb would not know, the difference between wanting to survive -reliance- and wanting to survive- dependance on reliance.
The lamb, retrieved from a state of projected unease. The mindset of those in watch. The mindset of ears in story listen. Emotive. Positioned on lap by warmth of the fire. Temporary bliss.
The lamb is probably dead now, but in those moments of being by the fire, in the lap of either the motorbike or the humans who most probably depared the mother in the first place, a trust ensued out of something that emotion could ultimately repress.
A slow cold death. Or a slow cold death after a bit of warmth.
Photographs by Aeron Martinovic